(un)expected

I was talking with an old friend the other night. We were talking about art and expectation. He claims that all artists create for an audience. Even if they aren't consciously aware of it, nothing is solely for themselves. It's always to be seen.

It made me think for a moment because I could not disagree, yet I could not agree totally either. For me, when I write something or when I make something I don't do it for the audience. I do it for the potential of an audience. Everything exciting is in the potential. Often what is actualized is disappointing. That moment right before a first kiss--that's golden.

So it's had me thinking about expectations. Mostly how expectations ruin all sorts of situations. Either they are too high, and are not met or are too low. If they are too high they bring with them disappointment. If they are too low they bestow resentment. Not to mention the weight of them.  Aren't we all heavy enough already?

 I recently met with a financial advisor to help me manage the money my father left for me in his estate. I had no expectations. I had no desire to be there. The fluorescent lights and dropped grid ceiling clashed in an unseemly juxtaposition with the oil rubbed leather and mahogany furniture. It was disconcerting.  I had nothing but a folder with my tax returns and the sum of my father's life boiled down to a bank account number. It was fucking depressing.

I guess I did expect that.


Speaking of depressing, I've been reading Wuthering Heights again, and Im not ashamed to admit its only because of Twilight (which I also reread not long ago, what of it?). I like it. I do. There's not one good character in the whole book really, everyone is horrible, and selfish, or cowardly and more like real people than just about any other story I've read recently.

"...he shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he's handsome...but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same..."--Emily Bronte

I really liked that quote there though, about how they're the same. Her love for him isnt based on how he looks, its not shallow. It's in her blood, its part of who she is.

It's such bullshit.

I love it.

I love you.

Goodnight.

Solid as a stone.

Can't sleep.

Imagine that.

This blog welcomes me back like an old friend. I need one of those tonight.

I could go into the petty details of my life, but that doesn't really matter does it? Situations may change but the outcome stays the same.

Tonight, I can't seem to keep myself together. I've spent the better part of the last year a walking semblance of myself. I am but millions of tiny pieces all shattered and held together by some frail force of will I've managed to scrape together. At any moment I could break. It happens so suddenly, like with the changing of the wind. But I will continue to smile, and laugh at the right times. I will change the subject if it becomes to painful. I do it tactfully, so you might not even notice.

Most people don't notice. Russell Brand has a video where he talks about that--how we can all live our lives fairly anonymously. How as long as you act your part, no one ever really notices you. It's a thought that I find as comforting as I do disheartening.

I published "Somewhere in the Middle"on Amazon recently. It's a project that I've been working on when the mood arises for years. I haven't told anyone about publishing it. It's almost embarrassing in a way. It really shouldn't be, especially since some of the content can already be read here. It's an amalgam of thoughts and experiences and I think that's why I feel embarrassed by it. I want it to be better than it is.

I want to be better than I am.

Solid as a stone.